


What Was Missing

by Terene



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 15:00:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2697236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terene/pseuds/Terene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompted by the incident with Hannah in 10x07, Castiel asks Dean a question that leads first to a long-overdue conversation about sex vs. love, then to some realizations on both their parts about the nature of their own relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Was Missing

The first time Castiel gets Dean alone after the events leading up to Hannah's return to Heaven, he wastes no time in introducing the subject that's been burning on his mind.

"Hannah kissed me."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "She the angel chick that was hanging around you for a while there?" Castiel nods. "So, uh, congratulations, I guess?"

"It's not like that, Dean. She only kissed me because her vessel's husband found her, and she needed to give him a reason he would believe for her leaving him."

"So you were just, what, a prop? That sucks, buddy."

"That's not the point, and besides, Hannah did care for me, perhaps even in ways she didn't understand yet herself. But she chose to return to Heaven, and I think it was the right choice for her."

"Fair enough. So what _is_ the point?"

The human tendency to obscure sensitive or personal topics in the linguistic equivalent of hide and seek has never appealed to Castiel, so he speaks bluntly. "Dean, I've kissed three people now and slept with one of them, and each time it was nice while it was happening, but I feel that something must have been missing. Maybe I'm just not good at it, but I don't understand what's so special about it. People write songs and poems about this one act of human communion, and all I was left with was a hollow feeling after. Maybe it's true that angels just aren't meant to have these experiences. Hannah thought so, but I can't believe that, not after everything I've been through and felt in the last few years. What am I missing?"

"Jesus, Cas, way to throw the heavy stuff at me."

"I'm sorry."

"Nah, man, it's cool." Dean shuffles from one foot to the other, running a hand through his hair as he is wont to do when discomfited, and Castiel knows he's having to force himself not to blow off the topic and stomp off in a pointed display of allergy to feelings. He has occasionally in the past made an exception to his self-imposed rule of "no chick flick moments" for Castiel, and the knowledge warms Castiel. "I'm probably not the best person to ask about this stuff though. You should ask Sammy instead. He's always better with this sort of touchy-feely girly crap."

Castiel smiles indulgently at Dean's typical dismissal of himself. "But I want your opinion, Dean. You have a lot of experience in this area. You've been with a great number of people over the years, and you must find it fulfilling or you wouldn't continue to 'pick them up.'" Castiel uses air quotes around those final three words. He thinks he better grasps how to use them now, but Dean's mouth still quirks up at the corner. Castiel doesn't really mind.

"I think I just got slut-shamed by an angel," Dean chuckles, a bit awkwardly, but Castiel just furrows his brow at him in confusion, waiting for him to continue. Dean's expression turns pensive. "Yeah, Cas, I'm probably not the best example here. I'm pretty damn screwed up. There's a difference between my hook-ups and what you're looking for, I think."

"I don't know what I'm looking for, Dean, or if I'm looking for anything at all. That's the point."

Dean sighs, running a hand across his face. "Listen, buddy, when I screw around I'm just wanting sex, pure and simple. No strings, no feelings, just a hot, willing, preferably bendy body to help me pound out some tension. And hey, that's great, _sex_ is great, don't get me wrong. That's all I've ever really needed. I'm not cut out for relationships. The couple times I've tried it, it hasn't exactly worked out. But when I did, there _was_ something more, I guess. But even then, something was still missing for me. I think I'm just screwed up like that. Anyway, that's probably what you're wanting, Cas. Something that's not just physical."

Castiel mulls this over for a minute. "Weren't you happy with Lisa? You had—"

"Don't talk to me about her," Dean growls with sudden vitriol, turning away.

Castiel gapes at the outburst. He hadn't realized that that wound was still raw. It's been years. "I'm sorry, Dean." The apology is not just for the unintended injury of the present, and Castiel hopes that Dean can discern this.

A tense minute passes. Finally Dean seems to deflate. "Not your fault, Cas," he says, voice weary but no longer angry. When he turns back around and meets Castiel's gaze, Castiel knows instinctively that Dean has understood the duality of the apology and answered in kind.

Castiel thought that would be the end of it, but to his surprise Dean presses his lips into a thin line and then begins speaking.

"Happy is a strong word, Cas. I don't know that I was capable of happiness then, with Sammy gone. But what I had with L—" His tongue falters on the name, and he squeezes his eyes shut and heaves a breath before trying again. "What we had, it was good. It was really good for a while, and then Sammy came back, and it wasn't good enough anymore, or maybe it was too good; I don't know. I loved her, Cas, but I don't think I was ever actually _in love_ with her. I thought I was, but it wouldn't have been so easy to get pulled away if I was, right? It was still missing something. So don't look to me for your answers here, because I'm obviously just as freakin' clueless as you." Toward the end of his speech, the words are flowing out of Dean, and the look in his eyes is half panicked, as if he's powerless to stop the onslaught of words, and half relieved to be releasing something that has eaten away at him for years, whether he'd acknowledged it or not.

It's quite possibly the most candid Castiel has ever heard Dean be, and a thrill runs through him at the thought that Dean would be so free with _him_ , that even after all of the jagged knife-wounds they've inflicted upon one another in the past, Dean would allow, even _want_ , that kind of intimacy between them, when it is all Castiel has ever wanted between them, and... oh. _Oh._

Before Castiel can think better of it—before he can think about it at all, really—he surges forward and covers Dean's mouth with his own.

There's a second where Dean freezes, lips firm and unyielding against Castiel's insistent ones, but then something shifts, and for a blessed, impossible moment he's kissing him back, and it's stars at midday and sun at midnight and the quiet before creation and every heartbeat of every living thing to walk the earth since.

But all too soon Castiel feels Dean stiffen beneath his hands, and he jerks away and pushes Castiel back all in one swift move.

"The hell was that, man?" Dean demands, low and even and dangerous.

Castiel's heart breaks before his epiphany has had a chance to settle.

"It was you." His voice sounds small to his own ears, futile, foolish.

"What?"

"What was missing. It was you."

Dean just narrows his eyes at him, features stormy. He opens his mouth to speak, but Castiel cuts him off, absolutely certain that he can't bear to hear anything Dean could possibly have to say right now.

"I had to know. I'm sorry, Dean." He pushes past Dean, suddenly desperate to get away, to run from the horrible magnitude of his own rash mistake and the look of betrayal on Dean's face. He doesn't stop, not even to say goodbye to Sam, until he's outside the Bunker and seated in his car. Only then does he notice a tickling sensation on his cheek, and when he brushes at it, he's shocked to find a single, decidedly un-angelic tear clinging to his finger. He stares at it for a moment, then wipes it on his pants, starts the engine, and drives away.

 

***

 

He's on I-80 south of Cedar Rapids a couple weeks later, on the trail of another wayward angel, when he gets the call.

"Hey, Cas," says Dean's voice, the first Castiel has heard it since the day he kissed Dean, and it's warm and fond and familiar and realigns Castiel's universe.

"Hello, Dean." The relieved smile he can't keep off his face (and since when did he lose control of his facial muscles?) colors his own voice in earth tones.

"Are you doing anything urgent right now? Can you come to the Bunker?" It's said in a rush, like if the words didn't tumble out all together they wouldn't come at all.

The Bunker is in the opposite direction of his destination and twice as far, but Castiel thinks nothing of this. The angel he's searching for is causing no harm for the present, anyway. He immediately starts looking for the next exit via which he may turn around. "Yes, I can come, but it will take me seven or eight hours. Are you and Sam okay? Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing's wrong, Cas. We're both fine. We just, uh, we just wanna see you." There's a beat, then he says softly, "I just wanna see you."

Affection and gratitude and longing crash over Castiel like the surge of a summer storm. He almost forgets to speak. "I'd like that very much."

"Good."

"I'll see you soon, then." His voice sounds strange to his own ears, a breathless, feathery thing where he is usually all gravel and rich whiskey-warmth.

"I'll be waiting," Dean says, and the promise of it causes a strange heat to creep across Castiel's cheekbones.

He hangs up, and if his foot presses down on the gas just a little more than usual, well, that's his business.

 

***

 

Seven hours and twenty-three minutes later it's half past two in the morning, and Castiel stands on the doorstep of the Bunker, his phone to his ear.

"Cas," Dean answers before the second ring.

"Let me in."

Castiel can practically hear Dean break out into a grin. "Be right there."

About fifteen seconds pass before Castiel hears the scrape of the locks being thrown back, and then the door is flung wide and there's Dean.

It's dark and moonless out, and the doorway's shadowed, but the smile on Dean's face is light enough.

"Hey," he says.

"Hello, Dean."

Castiel wants to reach out to Dean, wants to wrap him in a fond embrace, but he refrains. Three weeks ago, he wouldn't have hesitated. Three years ago, he would never have had the impulse.

He might have imagined the subtle twitch of Dean's hands, as though their thoughts are running parallel, but he hopes he didn't.

There's an empty pause that nearly turns awkward but doesn't, but then they've always been prone to sharing silences with maximum eye contact and minimum discomfort. Even this new and unanswered _thing_ hovering between them can't quite shatter their natural harmony. Or, Castiel reflects, perhaps "new" isn't right. Perhaps it's been hovering between them for a lot longer than either had realized.

Finally Dean remembers himself, and he gestures for Castiel to follow him inside. They head down the stairs and into the map room, which has been doubling as a sort of living room for the Winchesters. The room is well lit, so Castiel can finally get a good look at Dean.

It's obvious that he had fallen asleep on his favored ratty thrift store couch (he likes the Bunker's vintage furniture and generally leaves everything as-is, but he'd made an exception for a comfy couch and a modern TV) while waiting for Castiel to arrive: There's a line across his face from where it had pressed into the cushion, his t-shirt is crumpled and hitched up on one side, and his voice when he spoke earlier was huskier than usual with banished sleep. He's beautiful.

Castiel has always thought Dean is beautiful, but it was always in more abstract and impersonal terms, like admiring a fine piece of art. Dean is beautiful because his soul is beautiful, his battered, scarred soul, the light of which not even Hell could quench. This is no less true now, and perhaps even more now that Castiel sees not just the whole but also the many tidbits of history and all the minute facets of personality that meld together to form it. Castiel was aware before that Dean is a handsome man, but that awareness never held personal relevance. Now it is no longer simply general fact, but it is Castiel's own personal opinion, and he finds himself longing to lay claim to that beauty.

But that is an urge he will never again act upon, not without explicit permission. He made that mistake already and spent a miserable few weeks certain he had destroyed everything between them, which, like Dean had unwittingly explained, is (and no matter how their relationship may evolve, always will be) so much more than anything physical. The love Castiel feels (yes, _love,_ he realizes, glad to put a name to it—not the love of an angel for humanity, but the love of one person for another above all else) would not diminish if they continued on as they always have, if they moved on from the stolen kiss and pretended it had never happened. Though Castiel hopes for more, wants to find out what heights of pleasure and emotional fulfillment physical intimacy might bring them, if that is not what Dean chooses, Castiel will content himself with that decision.

They've been staring again, and Dean seems to realize it, jolting Castiel out of his reverie. "So, Sammy went to bed already, but he said to tell you hello and that he'd see you in the morning." Castiel nods absently. It's painfully obvious what Dean's trying to do. "You want anything to eat or drink? I know you're all mojoed up for the present, but I thought maybe—"

"Dean."

Dean shuts his mouth and looks at him, a little desperately.

"Dean," Castiel says again, softer.

Dean squares his jaw, then says, "Screw it."

And suddenly there's no space between them because Dean has gripped Castiel's biceps and is kissing him—no, there's _negative_ space between them because Dean has deepened the kiss, and Castiel opens to him eagerly, and it is everything and more than Castiel remembers, which is to say, it's _everything_.

Dean's hands slide up, following the line of Castiel's shoulders and neck, and they finally come to rest on his face, cradling it. With a soft, wet sound, Dean pulls his mouth away from Castiel's just enough for proper eye contact. His breath puffs against Castiel's spit-slick lips, and he murmurs, "It was you."

Castiel speaks every language in the world, past and present, but his vocabulary has narrowed to one word. "Dean," Castiel breathes for the third time in as many minutes.

"You were what was missing, Cas. For me too. Sorry I was such a dick."

"No, Dean, it was a liberty I had no right to take like that. _I'm_ sorry."

"Don't apologize. I'd had my head up my ass about this for a long time. I needed that kick in the pants. I was just, well, it just kind of freaked me out, you know?"

Castiel brings his hand up to stroke tenderly across Dean's cheek, and Dean subconsciously leans into the touch. "There's nothing to be freaked out about."

"I know. I've had a couple weeks to think about it, and I've kind of come to terms with some stuff. There's still one thing that scares me, though. This is higher stakes than I've ever played for before."

"Dean, I've seen you at your lowest. I may find you infuriating at times, but you have to know that nothing you might do could ever drive me away."

Dean looks at him with something akin to reverence, something Castiel hasn't seen on his face in years. It's been a long time since his angelic nature inspired any sort of awe in Dean. No reason remains for Castiel _not_ to kiss Dean, so he does.

When they break apart several minutes later, breathless, lips tingling, Dean huffs a laugh. "By the way, the notion that you're not good at this? Complete bullshit." Against all odds Castiel manages to blush, and he dips his head in an incongruous moment of bashfulness. Dean tips his chin back up with one finger. "Kiss me again, Cas," he drawls, sultry and incendiary.

All shyness forgotten, Castiel complies. He wraps his arms around Dean, and Dean lets him take charge. He wastes no time in shoving his tongue into Dean's open mouth, and Dean's tongue writhes against his. He adjusts the angle slightly, wanting _more deeper closer—_ and then Dean moans into the kiss and is suddenly wresting back control. He snakes an arm around the small of Castiel's back, tugging him snugly against him until there's almost no span of Castiel's nearly six feet that isn't pressed against Dean. Castiel feels the hard line of Dean's arousal digging into his hip, and a slight adjustment to their position brings it into contact with Castiel's own—and yes, he realizes only now that he's hard too, achingly so, and the glorious, electrifying friction created when Dean grinds against him causes Castiel to separate their mouths and tip his head back with a keening cry.

Dean immediately latches on to his exposed throat and sucks wetly at it, probably not hard enough to leave a lasting mark, though Castiel almost wishes it was. He would gladly allow Dean to leave visible evidence on his skin that he was there, like an artist signing his masterpiece. Castiel thinks back to his own mark that once graced Dean's skin, the burned handprint left when he'd gripped him tight, the one flaw in an otherwise perfect job of reconstructing Dean's body. He finds himself wishing it was still there, that it hadn't been erased in one of Dean's several subsequent resurrections.

"Harder," he demands, and he moves his hand to grip Dean's shoulder pointedly. A shudder runs through Dean, though whether at the word or the reminder Castiel couldn't say, and Dean sucks with more force, punctuating his ministrations with the occasional nip of teeth.

Dean licks at his throat one final time to soothe the abused skin, then, satisfied with his work, he pulls away. Catching Castiel's gaze, he asks, "Do you wanna take this further?"

"God, yes," Castiel exhales. It's the first time that Castiel can remember ever having taken his Father's name in vain, but he couldn't care less in this moment. This is what Dean does to him.

Dean grins, his open delight lending his face an almost childlike innocence, and he presses a quick, closed-mouthed kiss to Castiel's lips. "That's what I was hoping to hear. C'mon." He grabs Castiel's wrist and tugs, wasting no time in heading toward his bedroom. Castiel follows, just as eager, and he twists his wrist in Dean's grip and moves his hand up to slide their palms together.

Once inside the bedroom, the door is hardly shut before Dean is on him again, and their mouths crash together with sudden frenetic urgency. Dean tugs at Castiel's coat, and Castiel shimmies out of it with Dean's help as best he can without breaking the kiss.

"You have no idea how many times I've wanted to rip that damn thing off you," Dean pauses their making out long enough to admit.

Castiel says nothing in response, but he shoves at Dean's t-shirt, trailing his fingertips up Dean's sides in its wake, feeling the ridge of every rib. "Off," he demands. "Want to touch you."

The shirt is on the floor in a mere second, and then there's skin, miles of heavenly bare skin, and Castiel tries to run his hands all over it, but Dean is having none of it.

"Nope, you too," he says, shoving Castiel's hands away and reaching for the buttons on Castiel's dress shirt. "It's only fair." Castiel huffs in frustration and finally slides his hands along Dean's shoulder blades, which doesn't interfere with Dean's efforts enough to be protested. Castiel's shirt and undershirt are soon disposed of. As though by mutual agreement that they've been too far apart for too long, they immediately press together, bare chest to bare chest. Exploring mouths travel along each other's jaw lines, dipping back like magnets now and again to share breaths and tangle tongues; exploring hands stroke along each other's backs, Dean's hand the first to slip beneath the waistband of Castiel's pants and grip his ass, Castiel taking his cue from that and soon following suit.

Castiel's only previous experience with sex was with a woman, and though he cannot deny the appeal of smooth skin and soft curves, he thinks he prefers the light stubble and the hard angles of Dean's body, or maybe that's just because it's Dean—Dean, the man who changed everything in his world, the man who plotted a new course for a life that had continued on in one unchanging direction for millions of years, the man Castiel fell for in every sense of the word.

There's no comparison, really. The connection they've always shared, grown nothing but stronger though the years no matter how many times it should have shattered, makes all the difference, far more than Castiel could ever have imagined. A strike of a match is less than nothing to a supernova.

At long last Dean is reaching for the button of Castiel's pants, and almost before he can register it, Dean's shoving them down, and his boxers too, and he's completely exposed to Dean's gaze. He gives a little shiver as the cool air hits his erection, and Dean's breath hitches. Castiel wonders idly if it's because he likes what he sees, or if it's because he was suddenly blatantly reminded that the person he's been making out with and is about to have sex with is very definitely _not a girl._ Castiel finds he doesn't really care either way, because Dean hasn't faltered, and he's reaching for the button on his own jeans.

Castiel can't help the blush that spreads across his cheek. Against all logic he feels anxious to be so exposed to Dean, like by baring his body he's baring himself, and he wonders at the oddity of that. How strange that this body that's only been his for the past six years, the tiniest fraction of a percent of his existence, would be simultaneously so defining and so representative of himself. It's a good sort of anxious, though—he longs for Dean to know every part of him, and he feels a sudden rush of sadness to know that there are some parts of him that Dean's mortal mind will never be able to comprehend.

But all thoughts of himself are soon forgotten because Dean's jeans and boxers are sliding to the floor as one, and he's stepping out of them, and he's beautiful and perfect and all Castiel's, to worship with hands and mouth and body.

He tries to step out of his own pants so he may close the distance between them, but he gets a little tangled up because he still has his shoes on, and he has to do a funny little hop to maintain his balance and finally get them kicked off. Dean snickers, and Castiel just glares.

At last, at last, they're pressed together with nothing between them, and they may have spent the last six years defying predestination, but Castiel is convicted with a sudden sense of fatalism because surely they were always meant to be like this.

Finally getting each other completely naked should have done nothing but stoke the fires, heightening their arousal and urging them to quicker action, but there's a strange solemnity to the moment that makes them slow. Neither can pretend that this—what they're doing, what they're about to do—doesn't hold deep meaning for them both, isn't something beyond, _more_ , than anything they've experienced before. It's nothing short of sacred. Sentimentality is foreign to neither Dean nor Castiel, but it's not easily expressed by either, indeed, habitually suppressed by Dean especially. But neither is willing to demean the moment with undue haste.

"Cas," Dean whispers, reverent, and he gently reaches between them and takes Castiel in hand. Castiel can't stop the cry from escaping his throat, but Dean swiftly muffles it with his mouth and swallows it down. Once Castiel recovers enough for rational thought, he mirrors Dean's action, sliding his own hand between them to grip Dean. Dean is circumcised like Castiel, thicker but not quite as long, and Castiel finds that his fingers wrap around Dean's cock like it's an instrument custom-formed for them to play.

Dean moans into their ongoing kiss, and then he's walking them backwards, and Castiel feels the backs of his legs bump against the bed, and he's falling. He sinks into the memory foam with Dean on top of him, and they're kissing, grinding, writhing, _wanting—_ for too long and not long enough, and then Dean pulls back, propping himself on the heels of his hands, and Castiel tries to follow with something akin to a whimper at the loss of contact, but Dean stretches up out of his reach.

"How do you want to do this?" Dean asks, his voice betraying a sudden onset of nerves, causing him to sound almost shy.

It's a different kind of vulnerability than Castiel has ever witnessed in Dean, and it gives him pause. Dean mentioned having come to terms with some things. They haven't talked about it specifically, but Castiel knows well that among these things is his struggle to reconcile his attachment and attraction to Castiel, whom he perceives irrevocably as male, with his own fragile (for all his affected ego) self-image.

Castiel wants Dean in all ways, but for now, this is something he can give him. He can allow Dean to adopt the more familiar role, to give him one less thing to "freak out" about. It's hardly a sacrifice.

"Take me, Dean. Make me yours."

"Are you sure, Cas? 'Cause, whatever you want, it's okay." He can't quite suppress the tremble of his voice, but he bites his lower lip determinedly, and oh! how Castiel loves him in that moment.

He reaches a hand up to gently run through Dean's hair, settling his fingertips along Dean's neck and stroking the rough line of his jaw with his thumb. "Yes, Dean. There's time enough for other things later. This is what I want."

Dean grins then, a charmingly crooked thing full of affection, lust, and, yes, a little relief. But instead of moving straight into the actual deed as Castiel expects, he lowers himself back down and softly brushes his lips against the blossoming mark on Castiel's throat. He travels down Castiel's body by tiny increments, his mouth following a leisurely and meandering path down Castiel's neck and chest, peppering kisses—sometimes light and fluttering, sometimes open-mouthed and messy—anywhere he can reach. He keeps himself propped on one elbow, and with his free hand he strokes along Castiel's side, now running his blunt nails along his ribs, now tracing the sharp jut of his hipbone with calloused fingertips. Dean's mouth lingers for a while at one of Castiel's nipples, and he sucks it into his mouth and takes it ever so gently between his teeth and laves it with his tongue until Castiel arches beneath him and moans his name.

It's glorious, too much and not enough at the same time, but Castiel feels something almost like jealousy building in him. It's hardly fair that Dean is learning Castiel's body, every dip and angle and flaw, by hands and mouth and eyes, when Castiel wants desperately to learn Dean's body in the same way but cannot yet. He wants his turn, but even more than that, he wants, _needs_ them to be joined, to be one at last. Castiel has lived millions of years and spent thousands at a time awaiting orders, but he's impatient now.

Castiel pulls his knees up and lets his legs fall wide, bucking his hips up against Dean with unmistakeable meaning. _"Now,_ Dean, please."

"Hey, hey, no, baby, not so fast," Dean soothes with a smile, pressing a kiss against Castiel's breastbone. "Gotta get you ready first."

Castiel isn't entirely sure what Dean means by getting him ready, but it sounds like a waste of perfectly good time where Dean could be inside him. He's ready _now._ He frowns—pouts, really—not caring if it makes him look childish and petulant.

"God, you're cute," Dean chuckles, then he points at him with a look of teasing sternness. "And I never said that word, for the record."

Castiel's expression doesn't change; if anything, the furrow of his brow deepens.

"Seriously, I've gotta get you ready, or it's gonna really hurt. I don't wanna hurt you. Trust me on this, Cas."

Castiel does trust Dean, always, with everything he is. He lets his features soften again, and he gives a little nod.

Dean smiles widely at him, then stretches back up to plant another kiss on his mouth. "Gonna make you feel so good, baby," he murmurs against Castiel's lips, then he's arching across Castiel's body and reaching for something in the drawer of the nightstand.

He comes up triumphantly with two items in hand—one a small bottle of some liquid, the other a flat, colorful packet of some sort. Dean tosses the latter onto the sheets beside him and sits back on his haunches between Castiel's spread legs. He flicks the cap of the bottle open, pouring a generous amount over the fingers of one hand. Castiel watches the proceedings with interest.

Dean kisses Castiel's raised knee, then rests his dry hand in the same place. He catches Castiel's gaze and holds it. "This will probably feel weird at first, but I promise it's worth it. Just tell me if it hurts, okay?"

"Okay," Castiel says, still not following exactly but confident Dean knows what he's talking about.

Dean glances away long enough to guide his hand down between Castiel's legs and slip a slick finger along the cleft of his ass. Dean circles Castiel's hole a couple times as he catches his eye again, then he slides his finger inside to the first knuckle. Castiel gasps a little at the strange intrusion and reflexively clenches around it, but it doesn't hurt.

"Okay?" Dean asks, watching him intently.

"Yes," Castiel says. "More."

Dean huffs a laugh at his eagerness. "So good for me, baby," he murmurs nonsensically. Slowly he pushes his finger in until it can't go any further, and as he lets Castiel adjust, he stretches back up Castiel's body to kiss him, and it's deep and languid and perfect. Dean pulls his finger nearly out then pushes back in again, and when Castiel doesn't flinch he continues the motion, slowly at first then gaining speed. Presently he adds a second finger, and eventually a third and finally a fourth, until Castiel is moaning wantonly into the ongoing kiss; his neglected cock lies heavy and leaking between them as he's nearly undone by Dean's fingers alone.

At last, Dean must deem him ready, because he pulls his fingers out and sits back. Castiel feels the abrupt loss acutely, as though he's no longer complete without Dean fitting into him, filling him up.

Dean reaches for the little packet he had tossed on the bed, and he rips it open. He takes the item inside and rolls it onto his own cock. It forms a thin, rubbery sheath, and Castiel frowns at it. "What is that for?"

Dean looks up, eyebrows raised. "It's a condom, Cas. It's to make sure that if anyone has any diseases they don't get spread around, and when you're with a woman it helps prevent pregnancy."

"Take it off."

"What?"

"I'm an angel in a male vessel. We don't need it. Take it off," Castiel growls.

"Okay, okay. Even better." Dean rolls the rubber back off, then tosses it over his shoulder. "There, no condom."

"Now stop wasting time and fuck me." Castiel had been saving the word for the right moment, and it feels strange on his tongue. Judging by the way Dean's eyes dilate with redoubled lust, it did the trick.

Dean must take the warning to hurry to heart, for in an instant he's hitching Castiel's legs up over his shoulders, and he's lining up, and then—and then—!

As Dean breaches him it's the most exquisite kind of agony, because Dean moves so slowly and carefully that time seems to suspend. Castiel is hazily aware that he should be grateful for the caution, a control exercised only with great effort by Dean, if the strained expression on his face is anything to go by. But all Castiel wants is _everything._

There's a slight burn, but it's nothing close to pain, and when Dean is fully seated—a year, a millennium, a moment later, Castiel has to fight hard not to close his eyes and drown in ecstasy, because he couldn't bear to look away from Dean's eyes, beloved green reduced to a narrow ring around blown pupils and full of such adoration that Castiel could never in all his long life have believed would one day be directed at him, cannot now believe he even comes close to deserving.

Dean begins to move, and with every thrust Castiel cries out, soft and ragged. Dean's hand, still slick with lubricant, encircles Castiel's cock and strokes it in time with the movement of his hips. Castiel's hands twist in the sheets at his sides, clutching desperately as though they might tether him there. If ever he's been close to losing control and bleeding power out beyond the confines of his vessel, it's now.

Castiel has had sex before, but _this,_ this right now is what people live and die for. It's making love in the purest sense, solidifying and making tangible an emotional and spiritual bond years in the forging. It's nothing like the last time, and not just because the mechanics are different. Last time, though he had found a degree of comfort in the warmth and sympathy of another person, the act itself was, ultimately, purely physical. It was pleasurable enough in its own way, but it fell short, though of what Castiel could not have said at the time. This time, the sensations, though mind-blowing and exponentially greater than last time, are secondary. This time it's _Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean,_ and all else fades in comparison.

Castiel realizes the name is falling from his lips again and again. It becomes a prayer, an incantation, a beautiful blasphemy.

And suddenly they're still not close enough; there's still distance between them. Dean's too far away for Castiel to hold, and he reaches for him, slipping his legs off Dean's shoulders and wrapping them around his waist instead as he tugs Dean flush against him. He continues to babble breathy blasphemies into the skin of Dean's shoulder as he clutches at Dean's back with scrabbling fingers.

"Cas, angel, my angel," Dean pants against his neck, and it too is a blasphemy, and Castiel has never heard another prayer that sounded quite so sacred.

They're close, both of them; Castiel can sense it in the way Dean's rhythm stutters, the way his breaths become shallow and staccato. And suddenly he's coming with a muffled shout, warm seed spilling inside Castiel, and he rides the aftershocks as Castiel holds him close. When Dean's breathing starts to calm, he collects himself enough to take Castiel in hand once more, and it's only one, two, three twists of his wrist before Castiel is coming too. Castiel's vision whites out, and he thinks idly that this must be what it's like for a human to witness raw, unbridled angelic power before it leaves them blinded.

Dean buries his face in the crook of Castiel's neck once more, and they lie there for a few minutes, content. But all too soon Dean pulls back. "Gotta get us cleaned up. I'll be right back, okay?" Castiel can hardly bear to let go of him, but he does. Forgoing clothing, Dean heads straight for the door, and he opens it enough to fit his head through. He looks right and left, then, apparently determining the coast is clear, he darts out and down the hall. Castiel can't help but chuckle.

Dean returns in less than five minutes swathed in a bathrobe and carrying a damp washcloth. The bathrobe joins the rest of their clothes on the floor as he climbs back onto the bed. With gentle strokes he cleans off Castiel's stomach and inner thighs.

"Thank you, Dean," Castiel says, and he means for everything.

Dean doesn't respond, but he tosses the washcloth aside and leans down to kiss Castiel. This kiss is different still than any they've yet shared. There's no urgency to it, just a warm, safe feeling of familiarity and belonging. Castiel thinks he could bask in it for a thousand of Dean's mortal lifetimes.

Dean eventually gets them under the covers, and Castiel curls up against Dean's side, his head pillowed on Dean's chest. The clock on the nightstand says it's nearly four in the morning, so it's no surprise that within minutes Dean is asleep. Castiel too feels the pull of slumber. He should be concerned—it's the first sign that the potency of this second stolen grace is beginning to wane, but lulled by the steady rise and fall of Dean's chest beneath his head and warmed by his arms around him, Castiel can't find it in himself to care.


End file.
